Some One

by CWK
1/25/13

I am not used to people caring.
I dare you because I want to be daring.
Secretly, I hoped that you were staring –
not because I am freak of nature,
but because I am a creature in need of nurture.
"She hurt him; he hurt her."
This is all I've ever learned of
love. I admit. I've never known of love.
Hurt people hurt people – dead people kill.
I admit, I touched you to see if I am real;
I loved you, for me, to see if I can feel.

Don't stop; I can't stop; I won't stop; I need this.
I cut myself to bleed this –
but please know, stranger,
if and when you read this:
I typed on my knees in a dungeon of danger,
in a slight and fearful crevice,
on a fading screen shouting No Service,
with a voices in my head red raging in anger –
it was a moment of weakness
when I broadcast my deepest fear into the ethosphere.

Don't say, you say, I said it.
After I wrote, I wanted to edit,
but by then you, and the world, had read it;
besides, keep in mind – when I wrote, I was dead
with what my doc has since said
is an entirely new and unnamed disease.
Listen to me, please, pretty, pretty please –
but I need you to forget what I said.

Well then, friend, I have a confession:
after pouring out my inner being
on pages printed with nothing
but invisible ink. Some Thing
started to harass me – let's call it discretion.
That, and this sense of endless misdirection:
lies on top of lies; lies of omission, and selection:
lies polished unto a shiny neat perfection.
I -- the true me -- was some other where,
but there, on the screen, right there:
the invisible ink was glaring.
I felt the world's careless stare,
and I regretted every word and every bearing.
I needed to share,
but I regretted over sharing.

I wrote it all: more, even, than I understood:
more than I could, or should.
I was reaching more for a hand
than a display so bland, so grand, so canned.
It was me, yes, but not me at my best – me, only virtually –
tt was that part of me; the start of me – but not me, really.

What you read, I wrote, but not I.
The truth was in the lie.
That was me, but only at a distance;
the real me was hiding: deeper; further.
Can't you see the difference –
even if I didn't say so?
I wanted to be played like a lullaby, softly:
not like a fool, and not with such cruelty.
Can you see? Can you see me?
Is this thing on? Is anybody out there?
Anybody? Any Body? Any Where?
I'm lonely down to my bones;
I'm lonely, and alone.

I am not used to people caring.
I dare you because I want to be daring.
Secretly, I hoped that you were staring –
not because I am freak of nature,
but because I am a creature in need of nurture.
"She hurt him; he hurt her."
This is all I've ever learned of
love. I admit. I've never known of love.

I want to visit Rome, and Athens
Georgia, and bookshops and Athens
Greece, and quaint inns, and lion's dens
with you, or someone. Any One.
I want to cook spaghetti and Won Ton
for you, or anyone. And when I'm done,
and ready to die, I want to be buried in Avalon
beside my true love.
I admit. I never knew love.
I want to know someone. Any One.
I want to know myself better, and I want
you to know me: That Some One
that is me behind the disguises and familiar hauntings
of that web of worlds I have been caught in.
Some One? Any One?
I'm here -- if you would only listen
to me, and not my words.
I''m here. Right here – helpless; hoping to be heard.